Just a number in the machine, sold on a dream.


Just a number in the machine, sold on a dream.

While they chase the green.

A barcode to be scanned then disposed,

Cutting costs to stay afloat,

Working with passion day and night, till you bloat,

from short deadlines and long hours.

Is it all in vain?

As we drain, our compassion and loyalty, into a disposable cup,

that gets sold on for royalties, while we get..

lucked out.

But we continue to churn, as we yearn

and believe we’re closer to finding what we are worth.

A tribe that beats from the same drum as us is somewhere on this earth!

See for some of us this isn’t a game.

It’s our quest to find that connection,

if we are brave enough to move forward from rejection,

of those careers we give our lives to,

Without feeling blue, or giving up.

We march on in the hope of a sweet taste from that cup, made of brass.

..memories of sitting back in class,

That foundation, where we were nurtured and rewarded for our hard work and dedication,

It’s no revelation, that we crave that in our career: credit.. where credit is due.

Back in school, our education system rewarded us on merit,

not political moves,

or salesmen that know how to smooth talk,

and distort

the hurdles we all face.

Manipulating opportunities to toot their misplaced,


as they take claim for the work of those drones- who sit quietly alone, tending to the phone.

Bleeding with passion, worn and withered,

Copied and deleted, once depleted.

Disposed of once again.

On the mend, following the trend.

It cycles on…

..Just a number in the machine, sold on a dream.